


Princess of Orzammar

by lemonsharks



Series: Who Would Be King [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Study, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves In Exile, Gen, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:38:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/pseuds/lemonsharks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d been meant for darkspawn and treasure-hunting, great discoveries of ancient thaigs, and, if the Sheperate looked on her kindly, a long life molding her home into a better version of itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Princess of Orzammar

The sun lay as heavy on Irzan’s head as her father’s crown might have done.

She squinted up, and up, shading her eyes against the expanse above her, a bright blue line above the tree-lined path. The dog—dubbed Nug—snuffled just behind the trees and she wished, not idly, that she could _see_ the huge brute’s ruddy head.

Her voice didn’t echo when she shouted, and the dirt track gave way beneath her feet with every step she took. Like Dust Town; nothing like Dust Town. Not that she’d gone _there_ more than a time or two, slumming with a handful of other young nobles for the adventure of it. Would they be knifed in the back before they could slip away through the commons, back into the Diamond Quarter? Who knew?

Even the farthest corner of the great cavern had spoken back, when you called to it. A few places in Ostagar had, too, but they’d dispensed with Ostagar and there wasn’t enough _stone_ here, for that. And now, all she had was shuffling feet and Morrigan and Alistair bickering at each other.

 _Were Gorim and I like that?,_ she wondered, and decided no. They were not. She’d started to _like_ her second after a few weeks in his company and grown to love him after years with him at her side. No malice ever took hold, though their words with one another were often sharp; when she led her gang off taking stupid risks he’d followed and made sure none of them got killed. And she grew—mostly—out of the _desire_ to adventure for its own sake, he’d been absolutely _horribly_ smug.

_How long until we get to Denerim?_

A while, she knew. They had days’ walking to go before they reached the next _town_ , let alone found the people who could aid them.

Irzan’s neck and face _stung_ with heat, her cheeks and nose and the shell of her ear. The boots she’d taken from a dead archer in the Tower of Ishal were too big. They’d rubbed her heels raw; she _missed_ the boots and gloves and mail made for her on her commissioning day. They’d all just _fit_ , comfortable and _right_ despite their newness.

She’d been meant for darkspawn and treasure-hunting, great discoveries of ancient thaigs, and, if the Sheperate looked on her kindly, a long life molding her home into a better version of itself. If she were lucky, easy pregnancies and strong, healthy daughters and a quiet death knowing the Stone would welcome any dwarf who returned to it.

What she got was nightmares and the echo of her people’s destruction bouncing around between her ears. Like the _shing_ of her dagger on a whetstone, or a few bars of a Legionnaire’s chant, forgotten as soon as she woke.

But they needed diplomacy, and diplomacy she could do. She could lie and wheedle and play side off of side, she could threaten lead by force and _choose_ where others would not. Elves and mages and Ancestors be merciful, her father; she’d never met anyone who couldn’t be reasoned with or bullied or bought. She’d only ever known a few who turned away kindness because it offended their cynicism. Even among the most conservative houses. One old man with a castle and a couple dozen knights, him she could convince, even without a promise built on kinship.

She didn’t _think_ she’d have a problem with Alistair; he ranked her, yes, and certainly knew more about what Wardens _should_ be than she did: but. Some men you could count on to follow, because they’d been bred for following. Morrigan, she knew, had an agenda, and that would come to light when it did. The Witch wasn’t talking and Irzan wouldn’t ask until they knew each other a little better.

In the Deep Roads you stopped when you couldn’t keep moving any more—when your people were tired and hungry and you’d make stupid mistakes if a wave of Darkspawn or spiders bigger than your biggest man met you around the next bend. Out here you followed the disk in the sky and hoped you gave yourself enough time to get the fire up before dark fell entirely. It wasn’t _right_ , when she had hours marching left in her limbs.

But the sky had started going a weird, dull orange and her small company had started dragging their feet with each clearing they passed.

She called to the dog and announced that they’d best make camp for the night, because tomorrow was going to be another long day.


End file.
